Bidding on the Bodyguard Page 6

  “Do you know,” he said, the smile in his voice touched with reverence, “I didn’t even get as far as you did, my first day at the obstacles?”

  She curved her hand around his calf. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to believe me,” he said with a shrug in his tone, “but I’m telling you the truth.” He rested his hand on her back, above where her heart still beat wildly trying to catch up to her recklessness abuse of it. “Most new recruits don’t even make it to the wall.”

  “I made it,” she said, rising shakily.

  He beamed at her. “Yeah, you did.” He gazed at her with reverence. “You did. And you’re amazing, Emma.” He spontaneously hugged her. “You did what few men can do. You may not have finished, but you’ve won. You’ve won, Emma.”

  It didn’t feel like victory. She’d taken on the most daring feat of her life, and she felt more vulnerable than ever.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, standing on wobbly legs. He stood beside her, wrapping her in a towel and wrapping her in his arms.

  His silence invited her to continue her thoughts.

  Tears streamed down her face.

  “I did that. It is kind of incredible.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m incredible.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Her heart felt like it might burst out of her chest—not from exertion, but from the deluge of complex emotions enveloping her like the quicksand mud. “Then, why…” She gasped in choppy breaths, more hard-won than when she got stuck at the top of the second wall. “Why isn’t it enough?” She sagged in his arms. “I thought—”

  “You thought what?” he asked softly.

  “I mean, I did it.” She didn’t understand why her accomplishment had left her hollow and raw. “I should feel great, like you said.” A tear tracked down her cheek, followed by another. “All I feel is empty.”

  He held her, hugging her within the towel. “You put too much focus on the outcome, instead of embracing the whole experience. The end isn’t where you find purpose.”

  “I don’t know what I’ve found.”

  “You’re not a boot anymore,” he said, pressing his lips to her mud-caked hair. “Now you’re a lost wreck like the rest of us. Welcome aboard.”

  Shane didn’t know how to tell her that her shock was completely normal. The adrenaline wears off, the achievement dims, the victory hollows—because in the end, you’re still left with yourself.

  Who she was before she’d attempted the impossible, was the same person she’s be afterward. A common, unwelcome revelation among new recruits. They thought beating one obstacle course made them a star. In truth it was the grinding repetition and stark discipline to do it continuously, forever striving for mastery, that made them heroes.

  That’s why they called it military training. One achievement was merely the foundation for a lifetime of overcoming the impossible.

  Victory didn’t alter the reason she’d sought the win so doggedly in the first place. Now she knew she could do it, achieve more than she ever thought possible, but that knowledge didn’t erase the needs that drove her from the start.

  Those reasons were individual to each person. Insecurities, flaws, faults, worthlessness, vulnerability, uncertainty—everything people judged themselves on before always lingered afterward, in the quiet moments after the supposed accomplishment.

  “Plenty of recruits have faced the same shock you feel,” he assured. “They’ve confronted the same disillusionment. Me included. The only remedy is learning that it’s less about who you are now, and more about who you can become once you’ve faced your truth. We’re all unsure. We’re all afraid. You don’t pay the price for real victory without counting the cost. The cost is letting go of whatever keeps you from achieving your best, what old beliefs you’re willing to give up because they don’t serve you anymore. That’s when you find the better you—the best you.”

  The sigh she released sounded deeply humbled. “Then, how do you know anything you’ve achieved is worth it?”

  “You’re the only one who can answer that.” He felt a wet splash on his arm before she wiped her cheek. “I wish this could’ve given you what you’d needed.”

  “Do I get a refund?” she asked through a tearful laugh.

  That laugh told him he hadn’t lost her. “Sorry, no refunds. You’re stuck with me. But I can spend this weekend doing everything I can to help you find that stronger, better you.”

  “You’re a good man, Shane Duncan.” She squeezed his waist. The internal cartwheels started up and he couldn’t stop them. “Thank you for sharing these things with me, for what you’ve taught me already. You deserve a medal.”

  He huffed self-deprecating laugh. “I’m good in that department. Don’t need any more of those.”

  She sighed. “Like you said, it’s still my first day. I can do better on that obstacle course with the right attitude, I know it. Maybe tomorrow,” she said with the determination he’d come to expect from her.

  He hugged her hard. She made him believe in things he’d lost faith in, whether she knew it or not. Like his closed-off heart that had come out of its shell when she bid her way into his life.

  Her shoulders straightened. She revealed her regrouping optimism when she looked up at him from beneath the edges of the muddy towel, a sparkle in her forest-colored eyes. “There is something else we can work on,” she said.

  He held his breath. Was this the moment he’d waited, hoped for? When she decided to put boot camp on the back burner and let their mutual attraction burn brighter?

  “You offered to teach me self-defense. I know I can feel stronger with your help.”

  He willed himself out from under disappointment, because in an instant, she’d transformed him from dark disappointment to bright hopefulness. He gazed down at her. Who wouldn’t fall for this woman?

  “Whatever you need, I’m yours.”

  Her hands curved around his at the towel’s edge. When she gripped his left hand, she suddenly froze.

  The towel dropped. She took his hand in both of hers, turning it over as if seeing it for the first time. She glanced from his hand to his face and back, several times.

  He schooled his features into a careful, blank mask.

  She passed her fingertips over the blunted edges of his left pinky and ring finger knuckles. “Shane.”

  Her tone held neither pity nor repulsion, more surprise. His chest rose and fell on a shallow breath. The moment women noticed his deformity could be awkward—for him and her. “I take it you hadn’t noticed I’m missing those two digits.”

  “Not until just now.” She cradled his hand within hers like a cocoon. “Did it happen during one of your deployments?”

  He nodded. “That’s a long story for another time, when there’s a lot of beer.”

  “Okay.” She glanced away. “I understand.”

  Considering the welts, stretched skin and scars on her back, he suspected she more than understood. She could relate.

  When he’d stepped in to unhook her from the barbed wire, one of the sharp points had caught her shirt, lifting it to expose the webbed patterns on her body. He’d seen burn victims in military hospitals. He knew the damage came from a terrible burn that must’ve taken years and likely dozens of surgeries to repair. Her surgeons had been brilliant because her scars had healed well. They hadn’t repulsed him, instead skyrocketing his admiration for what she had to have endured.

  The moment he discovered her scars, he’d thought back to the previous night at the winery. Several times he’d rested his hand on her lower back, and she’d tensed, shifting uncomfortably under his touch.

  Physical scars left damage that lingered far beneath the surface. He knew all too well. He’d spent the years since his decorated, honorable discharge pursuing surface relationships with the types of women who didn’t care much about long-term plans, more interested in casual nights spent in mutual gratification. A less than stellar
pool to draw from, but that’s what he’d needed to get comfortable being intimate after his injury.

  He found it intriguing Emma hadn’t even noticed his missing fingers until now. Maybe that meant he’d made peace with it finally, letting himself be real and true to who he was instead of letting his injury hold him back or define him. It also suggested he’d felt a level of comfort with her from the start that focused their connection and attraction on levels more important than the physical.

  Briefly, he wondered if Emma had struggled with finding connection and intimacy because of her scars. He thought back to how she’d responded to his come-ons when they first met, recalling her shyness, the genuine blush in her cheeks, the innocence he’d sensed. She kept herself hidden from intimacy. Where he’d gone all out, she’d retreated. They had a unique experience in common, and that drew him to her with a powerful force beyond anything he could deny.

  He wanted to be the man to make her feel beautiful, appreciated, and worshipped in his bed. He wanted to be the one she dropped all her defenses with, who she could embrace sexual freedom with, wrapped in acceptance in spite of—no, because of—her scars. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder, march her back to the bunker, kiss away any protests or insecurities, and make love to her in the wet steam of a hot shower.

  “Shane?”

  Glassy-eyed with desire and visions of lust, he attempted to focus on her in the present. She looked up at him with sweet uncertainty. That concerned hesitation, her perpetual sweetness, reminded him why he needed to teach her self-defense. All the precious qualities he admired about her also made her vulnerable to con artists and users—and muggers—looking for an easy target.

  “Yeah, I—” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking about how to teach you self-defense techniques.” Or how I’d haul you up against a tile wall and slide my hard cock inside you. “There are a couple of ways we could go about it.” I’d hike your legs up around my waist. After your first orgasm, I’d spin you around the take you from behind, watching that gorgeous ass as you ride me. Damn it, he couldn’t concentrate. He needed to take some deep breaths and quit imagining how amazing it would feel to be inside her. More than that, how it would feel to be with her as they stood naked, without defenses, and she let him make her feel better than any man ever had. “We should refill our water bottles,” he said in a choked voice, “at the pump over there.”

  After refilling, she asked him to continue pumping the handle while she splashed water over her arms, legs, face and hair until the mud washed away. Her image was too like his fantasy, and he swallowed a groan.

  Water spiked her dark lashes, vividly framing those incredible green eyes he could stare into forever. He wanted to see their color deepen and her pupils dilate with the pleasure he wanted to give her.

  Slow your role, Duncan. Sex can wait.

  Right now, he owed her a chance to claim personal empowerment. She needed him to teach her how to defend herself.

  When he realized the quickest way to achieve that aim, he didn’t like what he’d have to do. To instruct her properly meant chiseling away the thick coating of optimism and sweetness, until all she had left to draw from was a deeper vein, where frustration and anger dwelled.

  In his experience, the average person didn’t like tapping into the darker parts of themselves. But she needed to dowse for that place and geyser it to the surface where it would prove useful, empowering, possibly life-saving.

  For all the chances she’d taken on him, he owed her that peace of mind.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going back to the bunker to grab a couple things.”

  He returned with padding used at the mixed martial arts studio his buddy owned in Denver. The stash included mitts for practice punches and body armor for more intense training.

  Emma shot him a quizzical look. “Why are you putting that on?”

  “Because you’re about to kick my ass.”

  She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re at least a foot taller than me, you bench press probably two-fifty—”

  “Three hundred.”

  She swallowed. “Illustrating my point, you don’t need protection from me.”

  “If you believe that, then we should pack up our shit and leave.”

  Emma blinked. “You don’t have to be mean about it.”

  That’s where she was wrong. “Do you want training or not?”

  “Y-yes.”

  Her hesitation needed to die a quick death.

  “Hit me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “No,” she said with a confused frown, looking a little hurt. She drew closer and struck his shoulder. He didn’t bother raising his padded forearm for the block.

  “Hit. Me.”

  She struck him harder.

  “Are you swatting a mosquito? Because it’s still on my shoulder sucking my blood.”

  Drawing her hand back, she slapped him.

  “When they say someone hits like a girl, you’re the reason.”

  Fire flashed in her eyes. Good.

  She curled her hand into a fist and punched his right pectoral shielded by padding.

  He scoffed. “Have you ever hit anyone in your life?”

  “No,” she answered, earnestness etched on her features.

  “What about your sister or brother?”

  “I’m an only child. It was just me and my mom.”

  Hell. She really hadn’t faced any kind of altercation or combat in her life. At least if she’d fought with a sibling, she’d understand basic defenses. “You saw me and my sister today. We’re BFFs now, but when we were kids we were ruthless to each other.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Because you have nothing to compare it to. I’d pick a fight with my sister because I passed by her sitting on the couch. Then all bets were off until Mom or Dad intervened.” He sighed. “You have no clue, do you?”

  Setting her hands on her hips, she said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he said, infusing forced annoyance into his tone. “You need to figure out how to hurt someone. It might has well be me, since I won’t hold it against you.”

  That drew a brief smile, until it faded as she sent him a hard look. “You’re not a stranger in a parking lot. I know you. I like you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The words touched him. “I like you too, Emma. That’s why I’m trying to push you past limits you didn’t know you had. The obstacles were totally different. That was you against yourself. Now, it’s you against someone else. I’ve got to find a way to tap into your fierce. I know you have it in you. You can’t have your fire and passion without having walked across hot coals to achieve it. Do you get where I’m coming from?”

  Instinctively, she pressed her hand to her back before it fell at her side. A distressed frown creased her forehead before she sighed. “I think so.”

  “Good. Hit me, damn it. This time like you mean it.”

  Chapter Six

  EMMA SOCKED SHANE squarely in the chest.

  “You can do better. First rule of fight club—”

  “Don’t talk about Fight Club?”

  He could’ve made out with her on the spot. “Great movie.” He grinned. “Seriously, though, first rule. Don’t tuck your thumb.” He grasped her hand and folded it into a fist. “If you hit someone for real like that, you’ll break your thumb.” He molded her grip, but her fingers felt loose as shoelaces. He exhaled. “Watch me make a fist.”

  She studied the way he curled his fingernails against the grooved line running perpendicular along his palm. When she mimicked the hold, he nodded.

  “Now press your thumb against your forefinger knuckle.” He demonstrated. She concentrated on perfecting the grip as though studying for her master’s degree in fist-making. “It’s got to be instinctive.”

  “Let me figure it out,” she retorted. “
This is my first initiation into Fight Club.”

  The display of frustration revealed a move in the right direction. “Got it?”

  “Yes,” she said, her jaw clenched. She was beginning to own her anger, even if it showed up as annoyance for now.

  “Hit me with your best shot.”

  “Okay, Pat Benetar.”

  “You’re too young to know that reference.”

  “My mom was a big fan. Pat Benetar had the voice my mom wished she’d had, and wrote songs like “Hell is for Children,” so I liked her, too.”

  Shane responded with an arched eyebrow. Emma stopped talking. He didn’t need to know about her painful childhood, her mother, or the scars on her back.

  She’d overcome all that. While it was good to allow those things to come up, without holding back, she needed to tap into those memories, find her true bravery.

  Her fist flew before she realized she’d set a punch in motion, directed at his solar plexus. He coughed an exhale. “That’s more like it,” he encouraged.

  She cupped her fist in her other hand. “I don’t like taking this out on you.”

  “Taking what out on me?” he coaxed.

  Averting her eyes, she shook her head. “Nothing I care to talk about.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Snapping her gaze to him, she said, “I didn’t ask you to care.”

  His cool glare raised her hackles. “Your mom. That’s where your fight is.”

  “Leave her out of this,” Emma warned.

  “You’re still protecting her. Why does she need protection, Emma? What did she do to you?”

  Something sick and dark spiked her veins. “It wasn’t her fault,” Emma seethed. “She wasn’t always drunk. Just when the men left.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “You don’t understand,” she shot back, slamming her palms against his chest, knocking him back a step.

  “So how did it play out?” he asked with caustic casualness. “Every time a new guy showed up, she abandoned you?”